


Under The Mistletoe

by Igerna



Category: Holby City
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-09-26 11:26:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17140901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Igerna/pseuds/Igerna
Summary: Alone on Christmas Eve, Bernie accepts an invitation to her divorce lawyer’s Christmas party.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I first started writing this last year but it grew to the point where it became obvious I had no hope of finishing it within the festive season, so it got delayed a little. This is unashamed fluff and smut with a smidgen of plot holding it together. 
> 
> With thanks as ever to my wonderful friend and editor @ddagent. Without her, my stories would muddle en dashes and em dashes; and I’d eat a lot less cheesecake! Thank you for everything sweetie xx

Chapter One

The sound of a door slamming penetrates the edges of Bernie’s sleepy, alcohol fogged consciousness. She buries her head further into the pillow; the bed is warm and cosy, but softer than she remembers. She can hear the tread of feet on the stairs; the call of a voice. 

Bernie lives alone. In a flat. 

Registering, dimly, that there is something odd about the situation, Bernie rolls over, only to collide with a warm body. A warm, unclothed body. She opens her eyes. As she does so, she hears the door open.

“Mum, I can't believe you're still—”

The voice stops, mid-sentence. Bernie turns towards the door, to see the speaker staring back at her. 

“Fucking hell.” The young woman in the door way turns and vanishes from the room as quickly as she’d entered it. 

“Ellie—”

The commotion has clearly roused Bernie’s companion, who leaps from the bed. Bernie has just enough time to register that the unknown woman has one of the most spectacular figures she's ever seen, before said figure is wrapped in a silk dressing gown and the woman hurries downstairs. 

It is at this point Bernie realises three things. She has no idea where she is. It's Christmas Day. And she’s completely naked. 

Downstairs, a door slams. 

***

_Thirteen hours earlier…_

Bernie hugs her coat around herself a little tighter as she stands on the doorstep of the large detached house, from which the unmistakable sounds of a raucous party are emanating. It's cold. Cold enough for snow, according to the weather forecasters, who are getting progressively more excited at the prospect of a white Christmas. Certainly too cold to be standing in a doorstep for any length of time. Bernie rings the doorbell again. She isn't entirely sure why she's here, except that she had suddenly felt the need to escape her flat.

The door opens. “Bernie, this is a surprise. I rather thought you weren't going to come.” 

“Well I wasn't going to, but—” 

Her host stands aside and ushers Bernie into the hallway, relieving her of her coat and scarf. 

“You look nice.” 

Bernie glances down at her outfit, a soft dark green jumper paired with her customary skinny jeans and a black jacket. Party wear doesn't feature prominently in her wardrobe, but the colour of the jumper seemed like an appropriate nod to the festive season at least. 

“Thanks. So do you.” She glances at her host's outfit, which is cut low enough to give prominent display to her ample cleavage. 

“Eyes up, soldier,” Sian says with an amused grin. “I don't play for your team.” 

“They're rather hard to ignore,” Bernie retorts. “Where exactly am I supposed to look?” 

“That's the idea,” Sian replies with a wicked smile. “Now, let’s get you a drink and then there's one or two people I'd like you to meet.”

Sian steers Bernie towards a table laden with glasses and swipes two flutes of champagne, handing one of them to Bernie, before leading her towards a knot of people in a corner. 

Half an hour after her arrival, Bernie is wondering how to extricate herself. Sian, whose invitation Bernie rather suspects had been motivated by a desire to match make, had introduced her to a petite red head named Rachel. There isn't anything wrong with Rachel as such. She's a few years younger than Bernie; a junior partner at Sian’s firm. But Bernie can't imagine what possessed Sian to set her up with someone who cheerfully proclaims her rejection of conventional medicine and urges Bernie, in an earnest tone, to abandon surgery in favour of homeopathic practice. 

Unfortunately, Rachel doesn't appear to share Bernie’s misgivings about their compatibility, because she seems hell bent on edging Bernie towards the mistletoe. 

“Bernie! There you are, darling; I've been looking for you for everywhere.”

A woman in a plum coloured dress, who Bernie swears she's never seen before in her life, swoops down on her, passing her another glass of champagne. She kisses Bernie briefly on the lips and then leans in to give her a hug, whispering in Bernie’s ear as she does so. “Play along.”

Baffled but more than a little relieved at the sudden appearance of this knight in shining armour, Bernie acquiesces as the other woman slips her hand into Bernie’s and addresses Rachel. “Do you mind if I steal her away? I haven't seen her all day and I’ve missed her horribly.”

The stranger bestows a charming smile upon Rachel and then tugs at Bernie’s hand. Bernie allows herself to be led through the crowd and into the kitchen to where two large squashy sofas overlook the garden; one of them piled high with coats. 

“Sorry to be so officious, but you rather looked as though she was about to have you ritually sacrificed. I thought you might need rescuing,” the stranger says affably, taking a seat on the empty sofa. 

“I did, thank you.” Bernie takes a grateful sip of her champagne and sinks onto the sofa beside her. “How did you know my name? We haven't met before, have we?” As she says this, she takes the opportunity to look at her saviour properly for the first time. When she does so, she has to restrain herself from gasping because the other woman is gorgeous. About Bernie’s own age, she would guess; she has dark hair shot through with silver, huge brown eyes and the most beautiful smile Bernie has ever seen. Her dress is cut low enough to give more than a hint of décolletage, clinging to her ample curves. She is, in short, stunning. 

“Serena Campbell,” the other woman says, holding out her hand, and Bernie takes it, realising with a blush of embarrassment that she has been staring. “We haven’t met, no, but Sian’s told me about you.”

Bernie gives her a look of alarm. “I hesitate to ask…”

“Oh, don’t worry. She thought we might know each other, given that we’re in the same profession: I'm a vascular specialist at Holby City.” Serena takes a sip of her champagne. “Actually, when she told me you were a client, I was surprised we hadn't met before. I’m familiar with your work: I hadn't realised you were local.” 

Bernie shrugs. “I'm not, not really. At least, I wasn't, until recently. I was rarely here.” 

Serena kicks off her heels and draws her feet up under her, fixing Bernie with warm brown eyes. “What changed?” 

“I was injured, badly. My ex begged me not to go back, so I didn't, but then…” Bernie shrugs. 

“Well, it's always good to meet a fellow member of the embittered ex-wives club.” Serena says the words casually, but there’s enough edge to her tone to indicate an unhappy story. 

“Is everyone here a client?” Bernie asks.

Serena chuckles. “I'm not. Well I suppose I am, because she _did_ handle my divorce, but it was fifteen years ago and we were friends before that. We went to university together, actually.” 

Bernie raises an eyebrow. “That must have been an experience.” 

“Ah, the stories I could tell,” Serena drawls. “But you'll have to get a couple more of these down me first.” She waves the champagne flute for emphasis. “Do you fancy another?” 

She walks over to the gleaming row of built-in cupboards, opening one at what looks like random to Bernie. But Serena clearly knows her target, because behind the door is a fridge, from which Serena produces another bottle. “Last one,” she announces, as she collapses next to Bernie on the sofa, peeling off the foil and then twisting the bottle until the cork makes a satisfying ‘pop’. 

“So, what did she do that was so terrible?” Serena asks as she pours champagne into Bernie’s empty glass.

“I'm sorry?” 

“The woman I rescued you from. What did she do?”

“She spent ten minutes telling me I ought to practice homeopathy instead of ‘barbaric surgical techniques’,” Bernie explains, taking a large gulp of champagne. “I was tempted to ask her what exactly she thought homeopathy was going to do when some poor sod’s had half his leg blown off.” 

Serena guffaws with laughter. “Oh goodness. Sian does like to match make, especially for her clients. She’s usually brilliant at it too, but something seems to have gone awry this evening. I dread to think who she's picked out for me – I haven't met him yet.”

Serena grins at her companionably and Bernie feels warmth settle in the pit of her stomach. She can't help smiling back, until the realisation hits her.

He. _He._ Sian is setting Serena up with a man. Well, of course she is. Serena is straight. Of course she’s straight. Bernie never had reason to think otherwise. But she can feel a knot of disappointment replacing that warm glow of hope.

“Bernie, are you ok?”

“What, oh, yes, I'm fine.” She rearranges her expression into one of polite interest. “So, what are your plans for tomorrow?”

“I was supposed to have a houseful, but at the moment it's looking like it'll just be me and Elinor – my daughter.”

“What happened?” 

“Jason – he’s my nephew, he lives with me. He won a trip to Norway to see the Northern Lights. Typically, of course, I couldn't get leave, it being the season of alcohol-induced mishap and illness, so he's taken his friend Alan. They were supposed to be back tonight but they're snowed in at Bergen airport and unlikely to return until Boxing Day.” Serena sounds torn between amusement and exasperation at this turn of events. “Then I was supposed to host my ward manager and his four children, along with my registrar. Except they've realised they're head over heels in love so they're having a cosy Christmas just them and the kids rather than joining me. I'm very happy for them but I really wish they'd declared their feelings for one another before I ordered the turkey.” Serena flashes a rueful grin. 

Bernie gives her a sympathetic smile. “Well my children are spending Christmas together, without me.”

“With their father?”

“No,” says Bernie, trying very hard to keep the bitterness from her voice. “He's going skiing with his new girlfriend. No, they'd rather have Christmas just the two of them apparently. Don't want me around.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

“So this is where you're hiding!” So engrossed had they been in their conversation that neither had noticed their host entering. “And drinking the decent champagne, I see.”

“If you didn't want it to be drunk, Sian, you shouldn't have left it for me to find.” Serena is unrepentant. 

“I didn't expect my guests to be going through my fridge.” Sian perches on the arm of the sofa next to Serena and takes her glass, draining the remainder of the champagne. “Why are you hiding out here, anyway?”

“I was having a nice drink and a pleasant conversation with the country’s leading frontline surgeon.”

“Well, I have someone for you to meet. You don't mind, do you, Bernie?”

“Of course not.” _Yes, Yes I bloody mind_. 

Sian sweeps Serena from the room. Bernie sits for several minutes nursing the dregs of her champagne. She contemplates leaving the party altogether, but finds she isn't quite ready. Besides, it would seem rude to go before saying goodbye to Serena at least. 

And so she makes her way back to Sian’s living room, intent on finding another drink. She halts in the doorway. In her absence, someone, presumably Sian, has turned up the volume on the stereo and half the room has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, around which half a dozen couples are now shuffling to progressively terrible Christmas music. 

As she edges past the dancers, she's hailed by Justin, Sian’s PA. They spend several minutes exchanging pleasantries about health, career and Christmas plans, but only half Bernie’s attention is on their conversation; the other half is scouring the room for a glance of Serena.

Eventually she spots her quarry dancing with a tall, greying man. Bernie watches as the man inches closer to Serena, Serena slowly edging backwards. Serena’s expression is impassive, but then she catches sight of Bernie. “Help!” She mouths over the man’s shoulder.

Bernie raises an eyebrow at her, not sure she's understood correctly.

“Save me.” 

_Well, it's a bit tricky to misinterpret that_. 

Bernie crosses the room just as the music slows. She taps Serena’s dancing partner on the shoulder. “Do you mind if I cut in?” The grey haired man looks affronted, but steps aside. 

“Thank you,” Serena murmurs as they sway to the music. 

“My pleasure.” Bernie is suddenly hyper-aware of Serena’s proximity; of the scent of her perfume; of the softness of her waist beneath Bernie’s fingers. 

Suddenly, Serena stops dancing, tilting her head back to look above their heads. Bernie follows her gaze. _Mistletoe_. Arms still around Bernie’s neck, Serena pulls them a little bit closer together. 

Bernie is expecting a brief touch; a quick peck on the lips in deference to the white berries hanging above them. But Serena is kissing her: properly kissing her. Softly at first, but then firmer and more insistent; her tongue probing at Bernie’s lips and then, when they open, dancing against Bernie's tongue. 

“Shall we get some air?” Serena murmurs when they part. 

Bernie nods, not quite trusting herself to speak. She follows Serena back through the kitchen, extracts her coat from the pile on the sofa, and turns the key to unlock the French windows into the dark garden. 

Outside, Bernie reaches into her coat pocket for her cigarettes, fumbling with the lighter as she touches it to the tip, and inhales slowly. 

“So, what was wrong with him, then? He looked alright to me.”

“Oh, he’s nice enough, I suppose. Fairly good looking. But he has a fatal flaw,” Serena says gravely. 

“Which is?”

“He's teetotal.”

Bernie lets out a honk of laughter. 

“See, even you can see that's ridiculous and you've only known me a couple of hours. I don't know what Sian was thinking.” Serena plucks the cigarette from Bernie’s fingers, draws deeply and returns it. Bernie takes a final drag, then drops the butt to the floor, crushing it underneath the toe of her boot. 

“Serena—” 

Then Serena’s arms twine around her neck again and she kisses Bernie once more, except there is no mistletoe this time, no unsuitable man or woman to hoodwink, just Bernie and Serena and the cold dark of the garden. 

Bernie’s not sure how long they stand there, pressed together in the dim light escaping from the house. She is conscious only of the feeling of Serena in her arms and the taste of the cigarette on her tongue. When was the last time she kissed like this? Freely, and with abandon; rather than the furtive encounters she had shared with Alex, or her stilted embraces with Marcus? Serena’s hands creep under Bernie’s jumper, and she shivers at the first brush of cold fingers against her warm skin; but her own hands roam under Serena's coat, cup the curve of her arse through the fabric of her dress. She pulls their bodies together, and Serena lets out a moan that leaves Bernie throbbing with desire. 

The shrill bleeping of a mobile pulls them apart. Serena extracts the phone from her bag, and glances at it. 

“That's my taxi.” She pauses and, for the first time, Bernie detects a hint of uncertainty. “Would you like to come with me?”

Bernie stares at her. “You mean, go home with you.” 

“Yes.” Serena fixes her with a gaze of such intensity that any thoughts Bernie might have had of chivalry evaporate. 

Serena takes her hand once more and leads Bernie around the side of the house, through the gate, to where the taxi is waiting for them. 

***  
They stumble out of the taxi and up to the front door; Serena fumbling with the key in the lock. Quietly they shed coats and shoes; Serena uttering a sigh of relief as she slips off her heels. She leads Bernie towards the living room, forgoing the overhead light, and instead lights the lamps that stand at either end of the room, casting everything in a soft yellow glow. 

“Drink?”

Bernie nods. 

“Take a seat.” Serena vanishes and returns a minute later, bearing bottle, corkscrew, and glasses. She sets the glasses on the coffee table, sits down on the other end of the sofa and sets about extracting the cork. “I hope you don't object to Shiraz. I would so hate to have to abandon such a promising friendship.” 

The look Serena gives Bernie as she says this can only be described as predatory. Bernie wonders if it's possible to feel weak at the knees while sitting down. 

But then Serena’s bravado seems to desert her. Bernie sees the bottle wobble as Serena pours the wine; doesn't miss the shake of her hand as Serena passes Bernie her glass. Serena takes a sip of her own drink, looks at Bernie over the rim, and Bernie can see the nervousness in her eyes. 

“Serena—” Bernie sets down her glass. “You're obviously not very comfortable with this. I think I should leave.”

“No!” Serena looks startled by the vehemence of her own response. “Sorry. I just— This isn’t something I make a habit of.” She takes another gulp of wine. “Bringing someone home, that is. I feel a bit out of my depth. But I definitely don't want you to go.” Her eyes meet Bernie’s and the uncertainty has lessened, replaced by determination, and desire. 

“It's not something I do very often either,” Bernie confides. “But I would very much like to stay.” 

She shuffles closer to Serena until their knees are touching. Serena's eyes are wide as Bernie plucks the glass from her hand and sets it aside. She lets one hand fall to Serena's knee; watches as her eyes widen further. Bernie raises her other hand to cup Serena’s cheek, and kisses her. 

And then Serena is kissing Bernie back. It’s messy, and eager; noses bumping and teeth clashing. Serena’s fingers tangle themselves in her hair as Bernie kisses her way down the other woman’s neck to her shoulder. She reaches up to rest her palm on Serena’s left breast, caressing her through the soft fabric. There is a sharp intake of breath. 

Bernie lifts her head from Serena’s clavicle. “Ok?” 

Serena nods, and her own hands slide down Bernie’s torso and under her jumper. Her fingertips dance lightly over the planes of Bernie’s back, along her spine, to trace the curve of her waist. A gasp of pleasure escapes Bernie and it is Serena's turn to pause; to look at Bernie, to smirk at the response she is eliciting. 

Serena tugs at the hem of the dark green jumper and pulls it upwards over Bernie's head. Her eyes rove over Bernie’s exposed upper body, falling to the scar on her chest, and Bernie sees the question form. 

“I was injured in Afghanistan; – an explosion; it's why I left the army.”

Serena nods, and there is a long pause. Then she takes a deep breath and stands; turning around so her back is to Bernie. 

“Can you unzip me?”

Bernie slides the zipper down slowly, kissing her way down Serena’s spine as she does so. The zip catches at the waist where the seams join, and Bernie has to tug firmly before it opens fully, the dress falling away. Serena turns and Bernie stares, drinking her in; absorbing the fullness of the breasts encased in silk and lace, almost exactly the same shade as the dress Bernie has just removed. 

“You are so beautiful.” 

“Shame about the tights,” Serena quips, with a gesture towards her legs. “They rather spoil the picture. Not very alluring I’m afraid.”

“Nonsense.” Bernie slides her thumbs under the waistband, rolling them down past silk knickers which match the bra. As she does so, her hands stroke the soft flesh of Serena’s thighs, and Serena shudders under her touch. Bernie slides her hand down the back of one calf first, and then the other, as she pulls the tights away and discards them. She presses a kiss just above Serena’s knee, and then another to her navel, and then, to the valley between her breasts. 

Serena’s breathing is ragged; her chest flushed; her pupils dilated. Bernie feels a rush of arousal at the effect she has had upon the other woman. 

“Jeans.” Serena’s voice is hoarse. She reaches forward to unbutton Bernie’s fly and tugs unsuccessfully on the denim. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She flops down onto the sofa. “Did someone sew you into these?”

Bernie laughs and shakes her head. “Sorry. Poor choice of clothing.”

“Not at all. They look amazing on you. I think you’ll have to remove them yourself though.”

Bernie shimmies off the jeans and then finds herself standing before Serena in her underwear. She’s conscious of the plainness of the functional black cotton, but Serena seems neither to notice nor care; tugging Bernie down to straddle her on the sofa, before kissing her again. Serena leans back as they kiss; pulling Bernie down to lie, half beside her, and half atop her on the sofa. 

Pressed against Serena, Bernie loses all sense of time. Serena’s mouth is against her lips, her cheek, her neck. Her fingers play down Bernie’s back, nails scraping lightly against her spine, and Bernie arches with pleasure. Serena’s body is soft beneath her own hands; the heat of her skin next to Bernie’s glorious; the taste of it sweet on her tongue. For long minutes, they kiss and touch, until Bernie shifts her weight slightly in the too narrow space. There is a spasm of pain, and an involuntary gasp escapes her. “Ow.” 

Serena stills. “What's the matter?”

“It's nothing. Back injury. I don't think it's appreciating your sofa.”

Serena looks at her in silent contemplation, then pushes herself upwards and off the sofa to stand up. She turns to Bernie. There's still a hint of uncertainty in her eyes, but when she speaks, her voice is steady. “I think we'd both be much more comfortable in my bed.”

Bernie feels heat rise to her face and curses the IED and its resulting injuries; rails at the embarrassment of being unable to participate in something as mundane as snogging on the sofa. But the hesitancy in Serena's eyes is gone, replaced by desire; and any lingering self-consciousness vanishes. With another twinge of pain, she heaves herself up off the sofa. It feels absurd, the pair of them standing in the middle of Serena’s living room in their underwear. Serena though, appears unperturbed by their near nudity; simply taking Bernie by the hand and leading her upstairs. 

It's late now. Serena’s bedroom is dark and cool, and Bernie shivers in the chill of the air. Serena runs a hand along her arm, feeling the goosebumps. A second shiver has nothing to do with the cold. 

“You're freezing; hop into bed.”

Bernie slides beneath the sheets as Serena closes the curtains and switches on the bedside lamp, before settling herself next to Bernie in the bed. She rolls onto her side so that they're facing one another.

“Better than the sofa?” 

In answer, Bernie pulls Serena towards her and presses their lips together once more. It is still a revelation to be able to do this – to take pleasure in touching a woman – and she delights in the freedom to explore Serena’s body. It is so very different from her own. Different too from Alex, whose body had been lean and athletic; Serena is all curves and softness. Bernie’s fingers trace the outline of her breasts, her stomach, the line of her hip. 

She props herself up on one arm, reaching around with the other hand to unfasten Serena’s bra and tossing it to the ground. Then she lowers her head to take one erect nipple in her mouth and gently sucks. Serena mewls. Delighted, she repeats the action. Serena’s fingers tangle in her hair, pressing Bernie’s lips against her breast. She strokes the curve of Serena’s waist; feels her squirm of pleasure.

“Take your bra off.” 

Bernie looks up to meet Serena’s eyes. All trace of hesitancy is gone now. 

She sits up, reaching behind herself to unclasp the bra; conscious of Serena’s gaze never leaving her body, of her eyes widening in desire. She settles herself back against Serena, breasts pressed together, and kisses her once more. Serena’s hands rove over Bernie’s body, exploring. She shudders as Serena’s fingertips graze the underside of her breast; as Serena’s thumb tweaks the nipple. Her own hands slide along Serena’s back, to her waist, down her legs. She teases the delicate skin of Serena’s inner thigh, until her fingers reach the hem of the other woman’s knickers and eases them over her hips to remove them. 

Bernie raises a fingertip to stroke Serena’s clit; gliding over its slick wetness. Serena whimpers.

She stills her hand. “Ok?” 

Serena nods. “Don't stop.” 

Bernie keeps the movements small, slow and tantalising; Serena whimpering again with each tease of her finger. Bernie fixes her eyes on the other woman’s face, watching every twitch of her lips, every flutter of her eyelids, as Serena’s arousal builds; until her hips begin to roll against the bed. Bernie slides her finger down from Serena’s clit to hover just at her entrance. There is the tiniest nod of agreement, and she slips a finger inside. 

Serena is impossibly, gloriously wet. Bernie slides in, and out again; Serena's hips bucking in tandem with the rhythm of her fingers; the whimpers turning to groans. Bernie feels the wetness between her own legs growing, aroused by Serena’s responsiveness. She adds a second finger and Serena’s eyes close, lost in pleasure. She can feel Serena’s muscles tighten around her fingers as desire builds and Serena’s approval grows progressively more vocal. Bernie adds a light sweep across Serena’s clit, then crooks her fingers just a fraction, and Serena comes with a cry; her head thrown back in sheer ecstasy; her face and chest flushed with arousal. Bernie feels Serena contract around her, spasming over and over again as she draws out Serena’s orgasm; continuing to stroke until the last flutters have died away.

“Ok?” she asks, when at last Serena opens her eyes. 

Serena nods; cups Bernie’s neck and pulls her into a bruising kiss. “Very much so. Thank you.” She raises a hand, twisting a strand of Bernie’s hair around her fingers. “I’m sorry. I became rather selfish.”

Bernie chuckles. “Trust me, there is absolutely nothing to apologise for. I enjoyed myself very much.”

Serena laughs; the sound rich and throaty. “Still, I’d like to return the favour.” 

For the briefest of moments, Bernie thinks she sees another flicker of trepidation, but it’s gone before she’s sure it was ever there, replaced by a wicked smile.

“Well, it would seem churlish to refuse in the circumstances.”

“Quite so.” Serena’s voice is husky now; the humour replaced by desire as her fingers beat a rapid path down Bernie’s torso. She traces over Bernie’s breasts and stomach, before coming to rest on her pubic bone, as she lightly brushes just above her clit. 

Serena’s touch is exquisite. Dexterous surgeon’s fingers circling feather-light, never quite touching where Bernie wants her. It’s aching; maddening. Boundless pleasure just beyond Bernie’s reach. 

“Please. Don’t tease,” she gasps, when she can abide no more. 

“Sorry.” Serena doesn’t look sorry at all, but her strokes become firmer, her fingers more determined. 

Bernie teeters on the brink of orgasm; senses that the merest of touches inside will send her spiralling. “Please, Serena.”

Serena obliges, slipping the tip of one finger into Bernie. An explosion of pleasure washes over her, wave after wave, until the tide ebbs away.

“Ok?” The hesitancy is back, though why Bernie cannot fathom. She reaches for Serena, wrapping an arm around her and holding her close, before they both fall into a deep sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before...
> 
> With thanks as ever to @ddagent for sterling editing work

Chapter Two

Bernie stares at the ceiling for several minutes, as she recalls the events of the previous night. Her head is pounding, and she rather wishes she could stay here, in Serena’s bed, but she supposes she ought to get up. 

_First things first: I need some clothes_. 

She glances around the bedroom, but to no avail. There is no sign of the skinny jeans and soft green jumper she'd been wearing the night before, though she does find her knickers by the side of the bed. 

_I suppose sneaking out the front door is out of the question, then._

There’s a grey hoodie draped over the chair in front of the dressing table. _It'll have to do_. She pulls it on and zips it up. It reaches to mid-thigh, which, if not ideal, is not entirely indecent. 

Bernie pads downstairs. The house is quiet. She treads softly down the hall, her toes sinking into the warm carpet. 

Serena is seated at the kitchen table, head in hands; a mug and a teapot in front of her. She looks up as Bernie enters. Her hair is mussed and sticking up at odd angles; the sunlight streaming through the French windows behind her. Bernie thinks she looks _enchanting_. All thought of making the swiftest possible exit is suddenly abandoned. 

“I take it that was your daughter?” Bernie sits down next to Serena. 

She nods. “She's gone to her father’s. I doubt she’ll be coming back.” Wordlessly, she pours milk and tea into an empty mug and pushes it across the table towards Bernie. 

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be the cause of an argument.”

Serena shakes her head. “It's not your fault. It's a bit of a shock for her.” 

Bernie wraps her hands around her mug. “You hadn't told her?” 

“Told her?”

“That you– well, that you like women.” 

Serena snorts. “There wasn't anything to tell.” At Bernie’s confused expression, she continues. “I've never been more than friends with a woman before.” 

Bernie stares at Serena in frank disbelief. 

“I haven't! Not really. There was a woman at a party, a couple of years ago, in Stepney. It was just a kiss, really. But I knew, after that, it was a possibility.”

Bernie continues to stare. Snippets of the night before trickle into her brain: Serena’s alternation between bold sexual advance and nervousness bordering on timidity. It makes sense now. “Must've been some kiss,” she mumbles, more to herself than Serena.

“It was,” Serena smirks. “But it wasn't really something to tell Elinor. I thought, well, I thought I'd cross that bridge when I came to it, if I ever did.”

“I think we can safely say you've crossed the bridge,” Bernie replies gravely. 

“Crossed it, demolished it, made a bloody great bonfire out of the pieces. I'm sure Elinor will come round eventually, when she calms down.” Serena stands up. “Would you like a coffee?” 

Bernie groans in appreciation. “I would love a coffee.”

Serena sets about filling the machine with coffee and water. “How's your head?” 

“Not as bad as it might be, actually, given how much champagne we drank last night. What about yours?” 

“Nothing two paracetamol and a fry up won't cure. And that’s the beauty of champagne,” Serena replies sagely. “Hangovers are never as bad.” She sets the coffee in front of Bernie. “Breakfast?”

“Erm, yes. That would be nice.” Bernie nods, a little wrong footed by the sudden offer. Indeed, the conversation as a whole is not at all what she had envisaged. Her dim recollection of a handful of one night stands at university is that the morning after the night before involves a painfully awkward exchange that both parties strive to keep as brief as possible, followed by a precipitous exit. _Maybe it's because we're older. Maybe it's because we’re both women. Maybe it's because the sex was bloody spectacular._

She watches as Serena extracts bacon, sausages, eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms from the fridge and sets a frying pan on the hob. The kitchen is soon filled with the smell of sizzling bacon, and Bernie’s stomach growls appreciatively. 

“Fried or scrambled?” 

“Scrambled, thanks.” Bernie watches as Serena melts the butter in a saucepan and cracks the eggs into a bowl, marvelling at her sangfroid in the face of something so momentous. “You seem remarkably calm about this situation.”

Serena smirks at Bernie over her shoulder. “You think I should be having an existential crisis about this rather late shift in my sexuality?” 

“Shouldn't you?” 

“I had the crisis after Stepney; thought about it a lot; bent Sian’s ear at length. It's ok. I wanted this.” She turns back to concentrate on the eggs scrambling in the pan. “I wanted _you_ ,” she adds, her voice quiet, but clear. 

Bernie’s face flushes at Serena’s words. Not that she has any reason to doubt their truth: despite the bouts of hesitancy, Serena had made her desire for Bernie plainly apparent. But it feels different, somehow, to hear it stated out loud; thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. Eager to steer the conversation onto safer ground, she asks Serena about her work on AAU; this, together with Serena’s questions about Bernie’s work in the RAMC, carries them through their meal. 

Breakfast finished, Bernie arranges her knife and fork neatly on her plate. “That was delicious, thank you.” 

“You're welcome. More coffee?”

“No, thank you. I really should be going.”

Serena’s eyes widen at Bernie’s words and she sets down her own coffee cup. “There’s no hurry.”

Nice though the breakfast has been, and hospitable though Serena is, Bernie has no desire to outstay her welcome. “Thanks, but I should go.” She rises to her feet, suddenly aware that she is clad only in a hoodie; that she probably reeks of sex. “I don’t suppose I could have a shower first, could I?”

“Oh, of course.” Serena looks oddly relieved. “Let me find you a towel.”

She leads Bernie back upstairs and along the landing, extracting towels from a cupboard and then opening the door to the bathroom; allowing a gush of icy air to escape. 

Serena shivers. “It’s freezing in here. I’m so sorry; I must have left the window open.” 

But the window is shut. Bernie reaches out to feel the radiator; the metal is cold to the touch. “I think this is the culprit.” 

Serena lets out a groan. “Jason. He’s incredibly energy conscious. He probably turned off the thermostat because he thought nobody would be using it while he was away. Well you can’t shower in here. You’ll freeze. You can use my bathroom; I’ll take Elinor’s.” 

“Oh, no, Serena, I couldn’t possibly.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s a bathroom. It’s not a problem.” 

Serena ushers Bernie back down the landing. She pauses in the doorway to her bedroom; conscious, perhaps – as Bernie is – that the last time they had entered this room it had been with the express purpose of having sex. “There's shampoo and what have you in the en suite, and you'll find a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. Oh, and there's a hairdryer in the bottom drawer of my dressing table.”

“Thanks.”

“Take as long as you like.” Serena then disappears through the door and up the stairs to the second floor. Bernie can soon hear the sound of a shower running on the floor above. 

Serena’s own shower is palatial, and Bernie stands under the water for a good fifteen minutes, waiting for the paracetamol to kick in and wash away the remains of her hangover. When she has restored herself to something resembling humanity, she switches off the water and wraps herself in the warm fluffy towel that Serena has provided. 

It is only then that Bernie realises that her clothes are still decorating Serena’s living room floor. The grey hoodie she’d pilfered earlier lays across a chair in the corner of the bathroom, but there seems little point in putting that on again: she definitely needs to get dressed at some point. She opens the door to the bedroom, only to find Serena on the other side; hair damp from her own shower, still wearing her robe. 

“I'm so sorry,” Serena says, her face flushed. “I did knock, but you didn't answer. I just came to give you these.” She takes a step towards Bernie, hands over an armful of clothing, but makes no move to leave. She simply stands there, staring at Bernie in her towel with frank appraisal. 

Bernie feels absurdly self-conscious. It's ridiculous. Honestly, she spent two decades in the army dressing and undressing in front of people every day. She’s not even naked. And she's already slept with Serena, for God's sake. But Serena’s gaze leaves her feeling vulnerable. Perhaps it's the alcohol leaving her blood stream. Or perhaps it's a response to how very lovely Serena looks; cheeks pink from the shower, the silk robe skimming the curve of her hips. 

Serena is so close that Bernie can smell the citrus of her shampoo; can see the droplets of water beading from her damp hair. If Bernie were just to lean forward an inch or two, she could kiss her. Their eyes meet. 

It’s Serena who breaks the silence. “Well, I suppose I ought to get dressed.” And with that, she turns, and vanishes back upstairs, leaving Bernie standing alone in the bedroom, wishing she’d been brave enough to kiss Serena again; wondering whether she’ll have another opportunity to do so. 

***  
When a fully clothed Bernie returns to the kitchen ten minutes later, she finds it empty. Unwilling to leave without saying goodbye to Serena, she picks up the used breakfast plates, and starts searching for the dishwasher; opening cupboards at random with no success. 

“It’s the second from the left.” Serena’s voice sounds from behind Bernie. 

She spins around to face Serena and her jaw nearly drops. Serena is wearing another dress. A deep burgundy this time, in a soft knit with long sleeves. It's less overtly alluring than the outfit she’d worn the previous evening, but Serena looks no less beautiful for that. 

Aware that she’s been staring rather too long, Bernie turns her attention back to her task; making quick work of filling the dishwasher with the breakfast things. 

“Right” she says when she’s done. “I guess I should go.” Bernie turns towards the door. 

A hand comes to rest on her arm. “Bernie, wait. I—” Serena stops, uncertain. “Look, you could always stay.”

“Stay?”

“For Christmas dinner. I have a mountain of food and no one to share it with; you said yourself that you don’t have any plans. It seems silly for both of us to spend the day alone.” Serena suddenly looks stricken. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer that. It’s up to you – if you did want to stay, you’d be very welcome.”

Bernie looks down to where Serena’s hand rests upon her arm; fingers pressed warm against her bare skin. It’s the most casual of gestures, so very far from intimacy, but Bernie can’t help recalling the sensation of those fingers as Serena touched, and stroked, and teased the night before. She shivers involuntarily. 

She’s not particularly fussed about spending the day alone. She’s spent plenty of Christmases in far worse places than the comfort of her cosy flat with a good bottle of scotch for company. But the knowledge that Serena would like her to stay is enticing; the prospect of what it implies – of more, perhaps, than the single night that they had shared – is intoxicating. 

“Serena—”

“Yes?”

“I’d love to stay. If you're sure, that is.” 

Serena beams at her. “Of course. Mind you, it's going to be hours before we eat. I've got a ridiculously large turkey and it isn't even in the oven yet.” She withdraws her hand from Bernie’s arm and crosses the kitchen. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Bernie watches as Serena takes the turkey from the larder and switches on the oven. “Not the turkey,” she adds hastily. “I have no idea what to do with those. I’m not much of a cook.” 

Serena laughs. “Neither am I. In fact, Jason once described my cooking as ‘mediocre but edible’. I can manage a passable roast dinner, though. You could peel the potatoes, if you’d like to help.”

While Serena prepares the turkey for the oven, lining an enormous roasting pan with foil and packing the cavity with stuffing, Bernie sets about peeling and chopping the potatoes. So absorbed is she in this task that it's several seconds before she realises that Serena has begun to laugh. 

“You do recall it's just the two of us for Christmas dinner?” Serena asks, pointing to the mound of potatoes in the pan; deeply amused. 

“Decades of institutionalisation,” Bernie responds drily. “I seldom cook but when I do I'm incapable of cooking for fewer than 20 people. And I thought Elinor might come back.” Serena gives her a small smile; clearly touched that Bernie has thought of her daughter. 

When the bird is in the oven, Serena breathes a sigh of relief. “Ok, well, at least that's underway. We might manage to eat before midnight.”

Bernie smiles. “Just as well it’s not going to be too early. I'm so full after that breakfast I can barely move.” 

“Ah, that’s what Christmas is all about – eating so much you don't fit into your clothes!”

“And here was I thinking the spirit of Christmas had something to do with peace, and goodwill to all men – and love.” Their eyes meet, and the atmosphere shifts from lighthearted camaraderie to something distinctly more charged. It's an odd situation, Bernie realises; they have shifted beyond the transience of a one night stand, but only just. They are simply spending the day together. There is no suggestion of anything more long term, however enticing a prospect that might seem to Bernie. 

“Shall I make a start on the parsnips?” Bernie asks, when the spell is broken. 

“Yes, please. I'll get going on the cranberry sauce.” Serena bends down to pull a small saucepan from a drawer, lending Bernie a rather spectacular view of her arse. “But before I do: are you sufficiently recovered yet from last night’s overindulgence to face some mulled wine?” 

“Oh, I think so. It loses most of the alcohol in cooking anyway, doesn't it?”

“I like the way you think, Ms Wolfe,” Serena says with a wink, as she sets about extracting the cork from a bottle of wine. 

They work side by side, chatting occasionally, but mainly content to enjoy one another’s company. Serena turns some speakers on, and locates a playlist of Christmas carols on her phone; it all feels surprisingly festive. Within half an hour, the food preparations are completed and the delicious smell of wine and spices fills the air. 

“Go through into the living room,” Serena urges, as Bernie dries her hands. “I'll be in with the wine in a minute.”

Bernie wanders through the double doors that separate the living room from the airy kitchen-diner. Serena’s living room is the picture of a family Christmas: a real tree; a stack of neatly wrapped parcels underneath; tinsel bedecking the top of the upright piano; cards from friends and family on the mantlepiece; a wood fire laid in the grate. 

There are pictures on the walls: Serena’s family, through the years. A black and white wedding portrait of a young woman with a slightly older man, presumably Serena’s parents; a teenage boy with a woman who bears remarkable resemblance to Serena, perhaps her nephew Jason and his mother; Serena herself, hair long and tumbling round her face, cradling a newborn Elinor. Bernie comes to a halt by the last photograph: a candid shot of a laughing little girl being tossed in the air by her father. It's one of those rare photographs that captures the moment perfectly; Elinor’s face a beam of pure joy. 

“I took it down for a while after we divorced,” says Serena's voice over Bernie’s shoulder. “I couldn't bear to look at it; I was so angry with him. But it's such a lovely picture of Elinor.”

“It's beautiful.” Bernie turns to face Serena. “What happened?” 

“With Edward? Oh the usual: a pretty nurse; a love struck house officer. I shut my eyes for a long while; I didn't want to know.”

“I'm sorry.” The sadness in Serena’s eyes makes Bernie want to reach out; to offer comfort in some way. She’s not sure whether it would be appropriate. 

“It was a long time ago.” Serena smiles at the photograph of her daughter; hands Bernie a glass of wine. “What about you?” 

Bernie is tempted to pretend not to understand; to prevaricate, to avoid dredging up the pain of the recent past. But Serena’s frankness makes disguise impossible. She takes a deep breath. “We separated a year ago. Our marriage hadn't been good for a long time. I think it only survived as long as it did because we didn't spend very much time together. Then the IED hit, and Marcus gave me an ultimatum: him, or the army.”

She takes a fortifying gulp of wine. “I chose to try and save my marriage. I thought I owed it to Marcus, to the kids, to try; having been absent so much. And I thought maybe it would be pushing my luck to go back. But mainly, I think, I stayed because I felt guilty.” She pauses. It's impossible to paint the next piece of information in a positive light. “I had an affair.”

Serena closes her eyes, and Bernie sees a flicker of pain cross her face. She wonders at the depth of the wound left by Edward’s infidelity. 

“Her name was Alex. She was – is – an anaesthetist in the RAMC. A junior officer under my command, in fact; so forbidden on more than one level. My last tour but one. We worked very closely together; ridiculous hours, under absurd pressure.” She looks up at Serena, then. “I'm not trying to excuse myself, there is no excuse for what we – _I_ – did. But somehow, nothing feels quite real out there; you’re so detached. And at the same time, you’re so aware of your own mortality; you've never felt more alive. Anyway, we worked together, we became close and then one day she kissed me, and, well, I don't suppose I need to spell it out. 

When our tour finished, I came home, and I thought about telling Marcus. I knew I _ought_ to tell Marcus. But I didn't. I found all sorts of excuses: I didn't want to hurt him; didn't want to disrupt Charlotte in the middle of her A-levels. But really, I was afraid. I couldn't bear the thought of being responsible for breaking up the family; I was terrified the children would reject me, and I wasn't ready to admit to myself, yet alone anyone else, that I'm a lesbian.” 

Serena nods. “So what happened?”

“I went back to my unit, went back on tour, and got blown up.”

Serena flinches at this matter of fact recitation of the tale. 

“Marcus issued his ultimatum and I thought I should try. But it just didn't work. We were friends at best, maybe not even that all the time. We’d simply grown apart and, aside from the children, there wasn't really anything left to tie us together. Eventually, I told him the truth and said I wanted a divorce.”

“I bet that was a fun conversation.”

“It wasn't pretty. And Cam and Charlotte are still very angry with me.”

Serena nods, absently fiddling with the pendant at her neck. She turns back to the photograph of Elinor, gazing at it for a long moment, before crossing the room to sit down on the sofa. She pats the cushion beside her and Bernie acquiesces readily; sitting rather closer to Serena than she probably would have done without an overt invitation. 

There is a long pause. Bernie suspects Serena is steeling herself to ask something. “Was she the first?” She says at last. 

“I'm not a serial adulterer.” Bernie can't quite keep the anger from her tone. 

“I'm glad to hear it, but that wasn't what I meant. Was she the first woman you'd had a relationship with?”

“I– yes. I mean, looking back, there were girls at school; teachers I had a crush on. And my second year pharmacology lecturer was, oh, she was gorgeous.” Bernie smiles reminiscently.

Serena grins at her. “It was my first year anatomy tutor for me,” she confides. “Tall, blonde, PhD student. Rowing blue. I think I wanted to be her, actually.”

They share a smile of mutual understanding. Bernie feels an unusual sense of kinship with Serena; a camaraderie which she hasn’t experienced since she left the army. And that had been a shared understanding of something quite different: of how it feels to work under enemy fire; of the sense of duty that drives an individual to work in such danger, so far from the people they love. It’s different with Serena: more personal; more intimate. 

Bernie leans back into the cushions as she sips at her mulled wine, closing her eyes with contentment. “I could sit here for hours. I don’t want to move; it’s so comfy.”

“That's not what you said last night,” Serena smirks. 

Bernie flushes. “Yes, well. I wasn’t exactly sitting still.” 

She looks at Serena, and thinks that she, too, is remembering the previous night; remembering what had taken place on the sofa and in the bed upstairs. She turns towards her and, as she had done the night before, plucks the glass from Serena’s hand, and sets it down next to her own on the coffee table. Bernie raises her hand to stroke Serena’s cheek, and then leans in towards her, cupping the back of her neck with one hand. 

But just as her lips are about to touch Serena’s, Bernie’s phone rings. Cursing whoever has such atrocious timing, she dives into her pocket; her irritation dissipating when she sees the identity of the caller. Mouthing an apology to Serena, she answers. 

“Cam, hi. Merry Christmas” 

“Hi Mum, Merry Christmas.” Cameron’s voice is cheerful, the distance of recent months forgotten. 

“Are you and Lottie having a good day?” 

He sighs. “Well, to tell you the truth, it's been a bit of a disaster.”

“Oh?”

“We put the turkey in this morning but we've just taken it out and it's raw.” 

“Raw?” 

“Yeah. The oven’s broken. Hob too. Completely cactus. So we were wondering…” Bernie can hear the uncertainty in Cam’s voice, the pause before he continues. “Could we come over to yours?” 

Her joy at the prospect of her children wanting to spend Christmas with her, even if out of necessity rather than desire, is soon tempered by the realisation of where she is. “Oh, Cam, I'm so sorry, but—”

Cameron cuts in. “Don't worry, it's fine. You don't have to.”

The disappointment in Cameron’s voice at his mother’s rejection is almost physically painful. Bernie feels a hand on her arm. 

“Is that your son?” Serena’s voice is low. 

“Hang on a minute, Cam.” Bernie moves the phone away from her ear. 

“I couldn't help overhearing. He's welcome to come here. They both are,” Serena offers. 

Bernie stares at her in disbelief. “Serena, we couldn't possibly ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking,” Serena points out. “I'm offering. It's fine. I've got enough food to feed an army, and I'd much rather your children join us than the three of you vanish off to your flat and leave me on my own.” Her tone is jovial but Bernie senses an underlying uncertainty. There is a slight note of pleading. 

Bernie nods and smiles. “Cam? I'm with a friend but you're very welcome to join us.”

“A friend, huh?” Cameron’s tone shifts from hurt to teasing. “Just a friend?” 

“I, uh,” Bernie isn't sure what to say. 

“It's alright; you don't have to tell me. Now, are you going to give me her address?” 

Prompted by Serena, she dictates the address to Cameron, who rings off with a promise to be round in half an hour. She stares at the now silent phone in her hand, heart pounding with nerves at the imminent prospect of seeing her children. She is only half listening as Serena, launched into a frenzy of preparation by the prospect of extra guests, tasks Bernie with polishing glassware. 

“Bernie? Bernie?”

She jumps at Serena’s voice. “Sorry, Serena, miles away.”

“You've done that one four times already. What's distracting you so much?” Somehow, Serena’s question doesn't feel intrusive. Perhaps their physical intimacy has breached her emotional barriers; perhaps Serena is simply unusually good at drawing people out. 

“I—” She sets down the glass and the tea towel. “It's Charlotte, mainly. Cam’s a bit distant, but he never stopped talking to me entirely. Charlotte, though; I haven't actually spoken to her in the best part of a year. She's been so angry.”

Serena places a comforting hand on her arm, but stays silent; waits for Bernie to fill the gap.

“And now she's coming here, and I have no idea what that means. Has she forgiven me? Or is she going to sit here and glower across your dining table? Or—”

“Bernie, look at me.” Serena squeezes the hand resting on her arm; her eyes soft and sympathetic. “She wouldn't be coming if she didn't want to talk to you. Think positively.”

Bernie nods, grateful for Serena’s calm rationality. She resumes her polishing. Before she knows it, she hears the crunch of tyres on the gravel of Serena’s drive, followed by the doorbell. 

“I'll get it, shall I?” Bernie walks to the front door and opens it. Cameron is standing on the doorstep, clutching several large bags. Behind him, head slightly bowed, blonde hair falling over her face like a curtain, is Charlotte. 

“Merry Christmas, Mum.” Cameron beams at her, but Charlotte doesn’t look up. 

“Merry Christmas, Cam, Lottie.” 

They all stand in silence on the doorstep for several seconds before Bernie ushers them through into the living room. “Take a seat,” she says, pointing at the sofa. “I'll just—”

She hurries into the kitchen and shuts the door.

Serena looks up from her pile of sprouts. “Bernie?” Her voice is filled with concern. “Is everything ok?”

Bernie nods. “I, er—” She leans back against the kitchen counter. “I just needed a moment.”

Serena puts down the knife, strides across the kitchen, and envelops her in a hug. “The important thing is that they're here now. It's not too late,” she mutters into Bernie’s shoulder. 

Bernie nods. “You're right.”

“So, are you going to introduce me?” Serena slips her hand into Bernie's and she allows herself to be led back through the door into the living room. Cameron and Charlotte are seated side by side on the sofa, talking quietly. They fall silent as the two women enter. 

“Serena, these are my children, Cameron and Charlotte.” Bernie’s voice is hesitant. “Cam, Lottie, this is Serena Campbell.”

Serena proves adept at making conversation with complete strangers, and soon draws from Cameron his plans to return to medical school in the New Year, and from Charlotte her intention to study art after she completes her English literature degree. Bernie watches and listens; envious of Serena’s ability to charm her children, but happy that they are here with her in any circumstance. 

After half an hour, Serena escapes to the kitchen on the pretence of needing to check on dinner. Cameron exchanges a glance with his sister and then promptly jumps to his feet. “I'll help,” he offers, following Serena from the room. 

Bernie tenses, unsure of what is to come in this clearly intentioned ambush. She turns to her younger child. Charlotte is once again staring at the floor. 

“Lottie,” Bernie starts to say at the exact same moment as Lottie says “Mum.” But what Charlotte intended to say Bernie has no idea, because she promptly launches herself at Bernie and bursts into tears. Bernie hugs her daughter tightly. 

“I'm so sorry,” Charlotte sobs into Bernie's shoulder.

Bernie shakes her head. “It doesn't matter; you're here now.”

She holds Charlotte while she cries, stroking her hair and whispering nonsense to her. Over Lottie’s shoulder, she sees Serena reappear in the doorway. The other woman lingers for several minutes, her expression wistful, and Bernie feels a pang of guilt that her family is here, with her, while Serena’s is not. If only it were possible to give Serena the Christmas she clearly wishes for; the Christmas she deserves.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere apologies for taking so long to post the final part of this: Christmas, despite being a holiday, is not always the ideal time to get lots of writing done. 
> 
> The eagle eyed will notice that the tags have been edited. Several characters who were going to make an appearance in this final chapter were culled in the drafting process. Apologies if I've misled anyone. 
> 
> With thanks, as always, to the fabulous @ddagent for her editing prowess.

By the time they finally sit down to their belated Christmas dinner, all four of them are ravenous. Bernie helps Serena carry platters of roasted parsnips and potatoes to the table, Serena carves the turkey, and they all tuck into the Christmas feast with gusto. 

None of the Wolfe-Dunn clan are easy conversationalists. Introspective by nature, they all tend towards taciturnity in unfamiliar surroundings. But Serena is a natural extrovert and, as a result, conversation flows effortlessly. Even Charlotte, habitually solemn since babyhood, is laughing readily. Bernie can barely believe her good fortune to be sharing such a relaxed Christmas dinner with both her children. 

When they've all consumed as much turkey, stuffing, and sprouts as they can conceivably manage, Serena rises to clear the table, but is shouted down by Cameron and Charlotte. They insist that it's only fair that the washing up be their job, as Serena and Bernie had cooked the meal. 

“That went ok, I think, didn't it?” Serena asks when they are alone in the dining room. 

Bernie nods. “It was lovely. Thank you.” 

“You have delightful children, Bernie. They're wonderful, both of them. A credit to you.”

Bernie blushes. “I'm not sure how much of that is due to me.” 

“Don't sell yourself short,” Serena admonishes. “I see a lot of you in both of them.” 

They look at one another for a long time. Serena’s soft smile intensifies, and the friendly camaraderie gives way to something much more charged. Bernie’s eyes drop to Serena’s lips, and, for a second, she thinks Serena might be leaning towards her, before she pushes to her feet and crosses the room to the dresser; extracting pudding bowls and more glasses. “Dessert wine?” she asks, brandishing a bottle. 

“Erm, yes, that would be nice.” Bernie rises to help. “Look, Serena—” She reaches out to touch the other woman’s hand; their fingers brushing. “I wanted to say thank you, for inviting us. It was… _beyond_ generous.” 

Serena smiles at her. “It was nothing.” She raises her hand to Bernie’s hair, tucking a wayward strand into place. 

Her fingertips come to rest on Bernie’s cheek, and Bernie leans into Serena's touch. She looks at Serena. Her eyes are intent upon Bernie’s face. For a long moment there is neither sound nor movement. And then Serena inclines her head. 

Just as their lips are about to meet, they hear the sound of a key in the lock, and the door creaking open. Serena jumps as though scalded, and worry flits across her face; nervous anticipation about what's to come next. 

The slim figure of a young woman appears in the doorway. She has long hair; Serena’s cleft chin. 

“Elinor,” Serena says. Her voice sounds equal parts pleased and nervous. 

“She’s still here, then,” Elinor says a little snidely; her eyes sliding to Bernie. 

“Yes,” Serena says, “as you can see, _Bernie_ is still here.”

Elinor looks mutinous, but Serena’s eyes flash in a manner that strikes Bernie as distinctly dangerous. She suspects Serena has a hell of a temper on her when provoked. “And Bernie will be staying. I hope you will too, Ellie, but only if you're prepared to behave yourself.”

Elinor opens her mouth to protest, but the tone of Serena’s statement brooks absolutely no argument, and she rapidly closes it again. 

“It's nice to meet you properly, Elinor.” Bernie offers her hand and Elinor hesitates, then shakes it with extremely bad grace. 

“Good.” Serena affects a smile and a brightly positive tone. “Now, you must meet Bernie’s son and daughter,” she says, as Cameron and Charlotte appear in the doorway. 

There are painfully polite handshakes between their respective children. Elinor’s nostrils flare when Bernie slides into her seat beside Serena; she takes the vacant seat next to Cameron in silence. 

Bernie feels she should make an effort with Serena’s daughter, given how kind Serena has been to her own children. “Have you had a nice Christmas Day, Elinor?” 

Elinor laughs sourly. “Oh, yes, it's been a blast. I began the day by walking in on my mother in bed with another woman—”

“ _Elinor!_ ” Serena hisses. “You didn't exactly walk in on us. I mean, nothing was happening.” 

But Elinor is working herself up into a furious tirade, and isn't prepared to be interrupted; determined to have her say. “—and _then_ , I go to dad and Liberty’s, and they're both paralytic. Before noon. And _now_ , I come back home, to find my mother playing happy families with her lesbian lover and her kids - _without_ me. So, in answer to your question - Bernie, was it? _No_ , I have _not_ had a nice Christmas.”

“Ellie—”

“Have you any idea how _embarrassing_ it is, finding out your Mum’s a lesbian by walking in on her having sex with another woman?” 

“We weren't actually—” 

“You were _naked_ , Mum. _Both_ of you. And there were jeans on the living room floor which definitely do not belong to you. They were at least _two sizes_ too small.” 

The sheer absurdity of this concluding statement proves too much for Cameron and Charlotte, who burst into laughter. The wind thoroughly removed from her sails, even Elinor manages a small smile. 

“You might have told me, Mum,” she says, quietly. “I didn't even know you _liked_ women.”

Bernie hears what Elinor doesn’t say: the real reason for her anger is hurt at her mother concealing things from her, more than anything else. 

Serena reaches out to clasp her daughter’s hand. “I'm sorry, Ellie. There really wasn't anything to tell until very recently.”

“Mum didn't tell us she was a lesbian, either,” offers Charlotte in a conversational tone. “We had to find out from dad.” 

“And now,” adds Cameron with a sly glance at Bernie, “he's buggered off to Chamonix with a girl younger than me. At least your Mum can cook a decent Christmas dinner. Ours doesn't know one end of a turkey from the other.”

Serena pats Bernie on the hand and silently tops up both of their glasses of wine, before retreating to the kitchen in search of the Christmas pudding. Bernie listens as their children commiserate with one another about the failings of their parents; glad that they are talking, even if their chosen topic leaves something to be desired. 

Serena re-enters the room, bearing the pudding, matches, and a bottle of brandy. She pours a generous measure over the top, then takes out a match. 

“Mum, wait! We need to turn the lights out.” Elinor jumps to her feet and crosses the room. 

In the second before Elinor flicks the light switch, Bernie sees a smile of pure joy from Serena: glad that her daughter is home; thrilled by her delight in the ritual. Then the light is extinguished and the smile is gone, before the blue flame from the pudding illuminates the room. 

***  
When the pudding has been demolished, they decamp to the living room to enjoy the tree and unwrap presents. Charlotte and Cameron have brought theirs with them and the living room is soon strewn with discarded wrapping from jewellery, clothing, books and DVDs. 

Serena receives a not insignificant quantity of wine from friends and colleagues; a fact which arouses considerable amusement from Elinor. There’s even a bottle from Cameron and Charlotte; it’s only cheap plonk, evidently selected from their own Christmas day provisions and hastily wrapped before their departure, but the gesture is kind and Bernie appreciates Serena’s gratitude. 

Despite the thoughtfulness towards Serena, Bernie hadn’t expected Cam and Lottie to get her anything. Their relationship has been so strained in recent months – has been non-existent in Charlotte’s case – that it hadn’t occurred to her that they might buy her a present. She had purchased gifts for them, of course – had sent them to the family home before Christmas – but she’d had no expectation that the gesture would be reciprocated. 

So it is with no small amount of surprise that she receives the presents her children have chosen for her: unwrapping them with care; cognisant of what the gifts imply; scarcely able to contain her delight that Cameron and Charlotte want to have a relationship with her again. She hugs each of her children in turn, thanking Cam for the whisky and Charlotte for the scarf. They sit together on the sofa at one end of Serena’s large living room, Bernie in the middle.

“Thank you for coming, both of you,” she says eventually. “It means a great deal. I’m very glad you’re here.”

Cameron wraps an arm around her shoulders. “We’re very glad to be here,” he says with a glance at his sister. “Aren’t we, Lottie?”

Charlotte smiles. “Yes, we are.” 

Bernie reaches out to give her knee a squeeze. 

And,” Cameron continues, “it was very kind of Serena to invite us.” He pauses, glancing towards their hostess; deep in conversation with Elinor at the other end of the living room. “She’s lovely, Mum.”

“Yes.” Charlotte’s agreement is emphatic. “She really is.”

Bernie looks from one child to the other; comprehension dawning as to the object of this ambush. “She _is_ lovely,” she concedes. “But I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea. We’re not, that is, I don’t think…” She tails off. “We’re not _together_.”

“But why _not_?” Charlotte objects. “She’s lovely, and you obviously like her.”

“We barely know each other, Lottie. And anyway, I don’t know if she’d want that – want, well, a relationship.”

“Well, have you asked her?” Cameron demands.

Bernie shakes her head. 

“Don't you think you _should_ ask her? If you don't ask her, you'll never know, will you? Don’t throw away a chance to be happy, Mum.” 

Bernie does think, but has no idea what her relationship with Serena _is_ , to be perfectly honest. The entire situation is odd in the extreme. This time yesterday she'd never met Serena, but now, well, now she wants to hold onto her tight and never leave. She knows it's absurd; knows that the idea that her brief liaison with Serena could become something meaningful is fanciful. But she wishes, _oh_ how she wishes it could. 

***  
An hour later, Bernie is outside, looking up at the dark sky. The stars are invisible under a blanket of thick cloud. At the end of the garden she can see the silhouettes of the trees shifting in the wind. She takes a drag on her cigarette, tapping the ash into an empty plant pot on the wrought iron table. Judging by the small pile of cigarette butts it already contains, it’s not the first time the pot has been commandeered as a makeshift ashtray. 

She hears the doors behind her open and turns to see Serena, mugs in either hand. “Everyone ok?”

“They’re fine. They're watching _Doctor Who._ Elinor isn’t even complaining about it. You?” 

“Yes. Just, um, needed some—” Bernie waves the cigarette. 

“Fresh air?” Serena smirks.

“Something like that,” Bernie agrees. “Not a _Doctor Who_ fan yourself?” 

“Au contraire, I like it very much, especially since he became a she,” Serena says with a suggestive wink. “But as this year’s special isn’t airing until New Year’s Day, they’re watching last year’s; and since Jason has already required me to sit through that one at least three times, I’m not in a desperate hurry to see it again right now. Besides,” she adds, “I thought you might like one of these to warm you up.” She passes Bernie a mug.

“Tea?” Bernie wraps her hands around the mug appreciatively at Serena’s nod, and then turns back to look out at the dark garden. “It’s peaceful out here.”

“It’s peaceful because everyone else is indoors, where it’s warm. Nobody in their right mind would be standing in a freezing cold garden in the dark at 9 pm on Christmas Day.”

“It’s one of the things I love about Christmas Day; how still everything is. The streets are so quiet. Everything just…stops.” Bernie pauses; takes a sip of her tea. “They look beautiful on you,” she adds, gesturing towards the hammered silver drops Serena has slipped into her ears.

“Yes, they're very pretty. We don't always have the most harmonious relationship, but Elinor does at least know my taste in jewellery!” Serena blows at the surface of her own mug to cool it. “This is lovely too,” she adds, reaching out to finger Charlotte’s scarf, which Bernie has wound around her neck. 

Bernie smiles. “It is, isn't it?” It's a simple piece. Plain black in colour, but it's woven in buttery soft cashmere. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you a present,” Serena says, releasing her hold on the scarf. 

Bernie stares at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t get you anything, either. It’s hardly as though you knew I was going to be here. We’ve only known one another for—” She glances at her watch. “25 hours.”

Serena laughs. “Is that all it is? Feels longer.”

It does. So much has happened in the space of a day. When she awoke that morning, she wouldn't have dreamt she'd be standing here, drinking tea with Serena, with their respective families together inside. “Anyway, you did get me a present.”

“Sorry?” Through the dim light, Bernie can see Serena’s confusion at the apparent non-sequitur.

“You did get me a present. You gave me back my children.”

“Don’t be silly. I didn’t do anything. You did that all yourself.” Serena smiles at her. “Well, with a little help from a broken oven.”

Bernie barks out a laugh. “The broken oven was fortuitous. But I mean it, Serena. Being here, in your home, has made all the difference. Without you, we’d have all been rammed into my tiny flat, eating out of the freezer; probably in awkward silence. Instead we’re here, in your lovely house, having the closest to a family Christmas we’ve had in years.”

Serena rests her mug of tea on the table and reaches for Bernie’s hand; entwining their fingers. “It's been lovely for me too. It's just been me and Ellie – when she's around, that is – for a long time.”

“What about Jason?” 

Serena shakes her head. “We haven't actually known one another that long.” She tips her head back to stare at the night sky. “It's a long story. Remind me to tell you some time.” 

Hope bubbles up inside Bernie. “Will there be a ‘some time’?”

“I’d like there to be.” Serena reaches over to take Bernie’s mug; setting it down on the table before taking her other hand. 

Bernie looks at their joined fingers. “Serena, I…”

“Shh.” Serena places a finger on Bernie’s lips. “I know.”

Bernie dips her head and touches her lips to Serena’s. Serena wraps her arms around Bernie's neck and pulls her closer. 

After several delightful minutes they break apart. The long promised snow has started to fall, flakes scattering in their hair and on the lawn; glittering as it reflects the lights from the kitchen. 

***  
At ten o’clock, Serena closes the door behind the departing backs of Cameron, Charlotte and Elinor, who, in the spirit of Christmas and getting to know one another better, have decided to head to the pub.

All of a sudden, they are alone. Bernie pauses, uncertain how to proceed. Loath as she is to leave – reluctant to break whatever spell has been cast over this lovely day – she's mindful that this thing with Serena is very new. She doesn't want to outstay her welcome. 

“I suppose that I should probably get going, too.”

“No!” Serena looks stricken. “I'm sorry. What I meant to say was: I'd very much like you to stay; if you'd like to, that is.” 

Bernie bites her lip. “It’s not that I don't want to. I do, very much. But I don't want to— Oh, I don't know. Dive in and mess everything up? I know we slept together last night, but it was— Well, it was different. I– I _like_ you, Serena. I—”

Serena presses her lips to Bernie’s. “I understand. And nothing needs to happen. But I'd like to spend a bit more time with you; have breakfast with you tomorrow. Why don't you stay in the spare room? You'll never get a taxi at this time on Christmas Day, anyway.” 

“Ok, Ok,” Bernie laughs; delighting in Serena’s eagerness and unable to resist the prospect of breakfast together. “You've convinced me. I'll stay the night. In the spare room.”

Serena beams. “Good.” She switches off the lights adorning the tree, rakes over the fire, and then together they climb the stairs to bed. 

Bernie retrieves her toothbrush from the en-suite while Serena rummages around in her chest of drawers. She retrieves a t-shirt and some scrub pants and hands them to Bernie. “Here.” 

Serena then leads her along the hall to the spare room, opening the door and switching on the light. “This is you.” 

“Thanks.” 

Serena hovers in the doorway, and then crosses the room to wrap her arms around Bernie’s neck; kissing her soundly. “Goodnight, Bernie.” 

“Goodnight,” Bernie says to Serena’s disappearing back. She changes into the t-shirt and scrub bottoms, and then slips down the landing to the bathroom to clean her teeth. 

Bernie lies in bed in the dark of Serena’s guest room. But despite the excitement of the day; the lateness of the hour; the copious quantities of food and drink consumed; sleep is elusive. Serena's goodnight kiss burns on her lips, bringing memories of the night before; chipping away at her sensible and chivalrous intentions. Suddenly, it seems like madness to be lying here in cold sheets while Serena is two rooms away down the hall. 

_Nothing has to happen_ , she tells herself as she makes her way down the landing to Serena’s room. _But there really is no reason why we can't share a bed_. She taps on the door and, at Serena’s invitation, opens it. 

Serena is sat up in bed; the room lit only by the bedside lamp. She's wearing leopard print satin pyjamas; her face scrubbed free of make-up. 

“I, um—” Now that Bernie’s here, she's not sure what to say. 

“Do you want to get in?” Serena pulls back the covers and pats the bed beside her. 

Bernie slips under the covers, and they lie side by side in silence for a minute or two. It all feels awkward again. Last night had been a one night stand. Today they're navigating carefully around the fledgling stages of a relationship.

After several minutes, Bernie feels Serena’s fingers entwining with her own. 

“What's wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

Serena snorts. “I can practically _see the tension._

_“Sorry.”_

_“Don't be sorry; talk to me.” Serena rolls onto her side, facing Bernie, still holding her hand._  
`  
Bernie is quiet for a minute. “It just all feels a bit odd. This is all so new and, well— Last night we were practically having sex on your sofa and now we’re lying in bed wearing _pyjamas_.” 

_Serena lets out a peal of laughter. “Well, if _that’s_ the problem, it's easily remedied.” She sits up, pulls the pyjama top over her head in one fluid movement, and deposits it onto the floor. “Better?” _

_Bernie stares at Serena, gorgeous and naked, before rallying one last attempt at self-control. “We don’t, I mean— I don’t want you to think I expect anything, just because of last night. I didn’t expect— That’s not why I came in here.”_

_Serena regards her carefully; then raises an arm, wrapping it around Bernie and pulling her close. “It is a bit odd, isn’t it? I suppose we sort of skipped the drinks and dinner and dating part, and it’s not quite clear how we navigate wherever we are now.”_

_Bernie nods._

_“But I do very much want you to be here, and I'd very much like to revisit last night’s activities if you'd be so inclined.”_

_Bernie breathes out, turning in Serena’s arms; rolling onto her side and propping herself up on one elbow._

_She presses a kiss to Serena’s mouth. “I’d like that very much.”_

_“I'm glad we’re in agreement.” Serena’s smile is impish. “Though, I'm afraid the pyjamas will have to make a reappearance later. I get horribly cold in the middle of the night. For now, though, if I'm naked, it seems only fair that you should be the same.”_

_Laughing, Bernie pulls off her t-shirt. When she turns back to Serena, it is to find the other woman’s gaze fixed on the scar bisecting her chest. She senses that Serena’s curiosity has been burning since the previous night._

_“Are you going to tell me what happened?”_

_Bernie shrugs. “Not much to tell. I was caught up in a blast from a roadside IED, which left me with a pseudo-aneurysm of the left ventricle.”_

_“And the back?” Serena's tone is neutral; professional._

_“C5-C6 fracture.”_

_Serena’s eyes widen. And then, to Bernie’s surprise, she leans forward; kissing Bernie firmly._

_“What was that for?” Bernie asks when they come up for air._

_“I’m just very grateful you’re here. That you survived it to be here with me.”_

_“You’re drunk,” Bernie teases, though she's really rather touched by Serena’s soppiness._

_“No, I’m not— Well, perhaps a little bit. But it’s true, all the same. I'm very glad you came through it unscathed.”_

_Bernie feels a sudden burst of affection for Serena: gratitude for being cared for; hope at the promise of something more. She kisses Serena again; desire and tenderness mingling on her tongue._

_She watches as Serena’s eyes darken. The mood shifts as the kiss becomes firmer, more passionate. One of Serena’s hands is tangled in Bernie’s hair; the fingertips of the other caress her breasts, glide over her stomach. Any trace of the hesitancy that had occasionally beset Serena the day before has vanished; instead she oozes confident sexuality. Bernie can feel herself becoming wet under Serena’s ministrations; arousal building with each touch of her fingers against Bernie’s skin._

_Serena lowers her mouth to Bernie’s nipple. She sucks just a little too firmly, and Bernie releases an audible gasp._

_Serena looks up. “Sorry, I didn't hurt you, did I?”_

_Bernie shakes her head._

_“I think I'm a bit over-eager. I barely had a chance to touch you last night, and I fully intend to explore thoroughly today!”_

_“I'll try to bear it.” Bernie’s eyes slide shut as Serena sucks again, and again, and again. It's almost too much; it's _wonderful_. _

_Serena kisses her once more, and then trails kisses along her jaw; down the line of her throat. She kisses Bernie’s scar; the jagged line of an incision made in emergency. The scar is sensitive still, and Bernie shivers at the touch of Serena’s lips as they trace the ridge of flesh._

_When Serena reaches the end of the scar, she carries on: across Bernie’s breasts and down her sternum; over her stomach and hips until she reaches the juncture of Bernie's thighs. She slides down the length of Bernie’s body, nudges her legs with one knee, and, when she parts them, settles herself between Bernie’s thighs._

_“Serena, don't feel you have to.”_

_“Oh, I want to, believe me. I intend to show you exactly how much I want you in my bed.” Her voice is husky, positively dripping with sex, and Bernie finds herself wetter than she imagined possible._

_Serena’s tongue laps experimentally at Bernie’s clit. “Good?”_

_Bernie thinks good is entirely insufficient a word to describe the sensation, but, right at this moment, finding an alternative is beyond her. She nods. “Good.”_

_Serena smiles, predatory, and licks once more; gentle but insistent. Pleasure builds quickly; Bernie’s breathing quickens. Serena’s tongue traces slow circles, taking her nearly to the brink. And then retreats. She kisses Bernie’s mouth; her breasts; her thighs. Everywhere but where Bernie needs her._

_It really shouldn't surprise Bernie that Serena likes to tease._

_And tease she does. She returns to lavishing attention on Bernie; tantalising her once more; watching her response and waiting until it's almost too late, before once again allowing her mouth to rove over Bernie’s body._

_But then Serena's tongue is against Bernie once more; harder and faster this time; licking and sucking until Bernie abandons herself to the pleasure of it._

_They don't speak as Bernie lies, panting, on the bed; Serena lying beside her, fingers toying with her hair. When her breathing had returned to normal, Bernie pushes Serena onto her back. Her eyes widen; correctly reading Bernie’s intentions._

_Serena’s moan of pleasure at the first touch of Bernie’s tongue is _glorious._ _

_Bernie remembers a conversation once, years earlier, with a group of female friends in the army. One woman had remarked on how powerful giving head made her feel- eliciting and controlling her partner’s sexual response. Bernie hadn't related at all: giving Marcus a blow job had been a chore she endured for his benefit; not something she derived any pleasure from. But now- with her tongue on Serena's clit, Serena juddering at its every touch- now Bernie understands. That sense of power; and what a powerful aphrodisiac it can be._

_She loses herself in Serena’s pleasure: in the twitch of her hips as Bernie swirls her tongue against her; in the sound of the cry she makes as she comes; in the flush of her chest after orgasm._

_Afterwards, when Serena rolls onto her side; when Bernie curls up around her, chest pressed against Serena’s back; arm curving around her waist, and the scent of Serena’s shampoo in her nostrils; Bernie thinks there may be no greater pleasure than this- to share a bed with a beautiful woman after they've made love._

_***  
The insistent bleeping of a mobile phone pulls Bernie from sleep. Beside her, Serena stirs, reaching out a hand towards the bedside table. She rolls onto her back, phone in her grasp. _

_“Hello?”_

__“Serena! How’s things?”_ _

_“Sian, why on Earth are you calling me, it's—” Serena glances at the clock on the bedside table. “Bloody hell, Sian, it's 8.15 on Boxing Day morning.”_

__“Oh, I just wondered how your Christmas was? You vanished from my party rather suddenly.”_ _

_“Did I?” Serena’s affectation of innocence is not convincing, and Bernie muffles a laugh in the other woman’s shoulder as best she can; taking the opportunity to undo the top button of Serena's pyjamas._

__“You know you did.”_ _

_“Yes, well, things to see, people to do, you know how it is.”_

_Bernie can't restrain herself at this and lets out a full honk of laughter._

__“Mm-hmm, I certainly do. People by the name of Berenice Wolfe, so I hear.”_ _

_“I have no idea what you mean,” Serena lies, brazenly and unconvincingly._

__“Pull the other one, Campbell. I know she's there with you – there's no mistaking that laugh.”_ _

_Serena glares at Bernie in mock annoyance. She shrugs. Sian’s right: it is pretty distinctive; Bernie gave up trying to change or conceal it years ago. She nestles back down against Serena, placing a kiss against her collarbone. She feels the other woman’s shiver of pleasure at the contact._

_“How did you know?” Serena demands, as Bernie finishes unbuttoning the pyjamas and moves her lips to Serena's sternum._

__“I saw you snogging the life out of one another in my back garden, then disappearing into a taxi without saying goodbye. I do so like it when a plan comes together.”_ _

_“Ah, yes, I can see that's rather incriminating,” Serena admits._

_Bernie presses her mouth to Serena’s breast; takes her nipple in her mouth. Serena’s face begins to flush, though whether with arousal or embarrassment, Bernie couldn’t say._

_“Bernie!” Serena admonishes, covering the microphone, “I'm _talking_.”_

_“I'm not stopping you.” Bernie's mouth continues its journey down Serena's body._

__“Having fun, are we?”_ _

_“Yes, I mean, no, I mean— Oh sod it. Yes, I am having— Hang on. What do you mean you ‘like it when a plan comes together’? You were trying to push me off on what's-his-name.”_

__“How much did you have to drink on Christmas Eve? Think about it. Serena, darling, I'm your best friend. Do you really think I'd attempt to set you up with a teetotal mountain biking enthusiast?”_ _

_Serena’s face bears an unmistakable expression of dawning comprehension. “You— What do you mean— Why didn't you just—” she splutters._

__“Well, if I’d said ‘Serena this is Bernie Wolfe; I think you'd be perfect for one another’, you wouldn't have looked twice at her. You've been gazing longingly at women ever since Stepney, without any sign of doing anything about it. And if Bernie had thought you were both available and interested, she'd probably have skipped off to Siberia or somewhere.”_ _

_Serena is silenced by this, and Bernie takes the opportunity to pluck the phone from her hand. “What Serena means to say is ‘thank you, Sian.’ We’re both very grateful for your efforts, but we’re rather tied up for the foreseeable future.” She ends the call and tosses the phone back onto the bedside table._

_“Do you mind very much that Sian set us up?” Bernie asks Serena, who still looks distinctly miffed._

_“I— No, not really. Much as I hate to admit it, I probably did need a bit of a shove; I was nervous.”_

_“I'm afraid her analysis was uncannily accurate in my case, too; it's distinctly possible I'd have run away at the first sight of mistletoe.”_

_Serena’s expression softens. “Then I don't mind at all.”_

_Less than forty eight hours earlier, Bernie had expected to be spending Christmas alone, and had never even heard of Serena Campbell. Now, she is lying in Serena’s arms, having spent Christmas Day together with their families; the hope of a future stretching before them. And that, she thinks, is by far the best Christmas present she could ever have hoped for._

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is the second fic I’ve posted in as many days in which they kiss under the mistletoe. No, I’m not apologising.


End file.
